


C Minor and the Girl Waiting For The Bus

by magicflowr



Category: Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Hope's Peak Academy (Dangan Ronpa), Alternate Universe - No Killing Game (Dangan Ronpa), Blushing, F/F, Fantasy, First Dates, First Meetings, Frustration, Love songs, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Piano, Snow, Songwriting, Useless Lesbians, Winter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 12:48:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15195122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicflowr/pseuds/magicflowr
Summary: There's a girl sat at her piano, desperately searching for inspiration. Across the street, there's a girl waiting for the bus. They learn to trust each other before they ever meet.





	C Minor and the Girl Waiting For The Bus

Kaede writes music in fountain pen and ink.  _Piano freak._

That’s not strictly true. She writes in biro on her hands and arms, her legs if she’s _really_ desperate. Music is in everything; natural, man-made - the chirp of a bird or the tap of a pencil – she’ll find it’s rhythm. She can’t afford to lose that precise moment of inspiration. Absent-mindedly, she’ll wash the faded biro off with soap, but by that point, the ink has absorbed into her skin.

Notebooks are for elaboration, not inspiration. There are stacks of notebooks in her school bag and even more on her desk, but she could never use them for the half-hearted scribbles she writes on herself.

Her skin is for ink and ideas and unexplainable bruises. Today, however, her skin is blank.

At home, she writes music in fountain pen and ink. Why? Because it looks, well… fancy. Professional. Her scrawl on the staff looks tortured and poetic. Like a seventeenth-century composer burning the midnight oil – this work is urgent, she _must_ complete it in time for the royal ball.

 _Oh,_ but the beauty in the princess’s dance washes her strife away. It makes everything worth it. She’ll dip, she’ll sway, she’ll spin to the dulcet sounds of the grand piano. She’ll curtsy, and she’ll pause in thought. Then, as an idea strikes her, she’ll make her way over to the piano.

 _Oh,_ she’ll glide over to the pianist and grasp her hands tightly. She’ll run her fingers over the callouses without knowing they were all for her sake. She’ll look into her eyes and thank her for the song, for her work, and she’ll leave, never knowing the pianist’s feelings. Returned to the arms of a handsome prince.

And the pianist will pine. She’ll watch from a distance and write lovesick songs in C minor.

This elaborate fantasy world serves Kaede well. Her own reality is fairly boring, but she has songs upon songs about a beautiful, unattainable princess. It’s like composing a soundtrack for a movie inside her head.

C major for their meeting – light and beautiful and full of promise.

F minor for their story. A tragic tale of unfulfilled love, their one-sided love, a tragic love. The true lamentation of a lovesick soul. F Minor fills everything with sorrow.

G Minor for pining, the unrequited longing building up in the pianist, as she tears at her hair and sinks to her knees.

F minor for loneliness, for the thought of the princesses wedding – F major for the reluctant joy of her wedding songs. 

_I'm even jilted in my own fantasies._

It’s far more elegant than reality. Reality is _cosy_ , full of warmth and fairy lights. Kaede Akamatsu is gel pens and lilac vests, fluffy cushions and soft sheets. A warm, inviting bed, just a few feet away… Kaede Akamatsu is no tortured musician. No Bach or Beethoven.

Yes, the fantasy is far more tragic than reality.

It’s _supposed_ to be.

She’s grateful for the luxury of _acting_ like a tortured musician. In reality, she sits at her oak desk and roughly massages her temples, trying to coax out even an ounce of inspiration. The voice in her head screaming _just go to bed_ gets louder and louder, but so does the voice screaming _just get something done._

The loaded pen rests on its side. _Drip, drip_. She resigns herself to watching ink pool on the page. Sadness is nothing to wish for.

Her life is fine.

 _Fine_.

It’s nights (…weeks) like these that make her yearn for the torment of her fantasies. So long as they remain just that. Nights like these, she wonders if she should try to make tragedy her reality.

Is a lack of sadness holding her back? Is she really reaching her full potential?

She thumps her head on the desk and scolds herself, _no_ , nobody’s full potential is sorrow _._ That’s why she has fantasies, but they’re running dry tonight. The only thing running is the _drip, drip_ of the ink. The _drip, drip_ of the ink soothes her melodic mind. The _drip, drip_ of ink, nothing but ink. _Drip, drip,_ but no inspiration or ideas escape onto the page.

 _Drip, drip._ With a groan, she raises her head. If anything, she should stop the dripping – so she wipes the pen and dips it back into the neat little glass pot she bought over the weekend. When she bought the thing, she thought the pen would help her to write. The glass is clear with a hint of purple dye, and a heart shape stamped into the side.

To watch the ink transfer from pot, to pen, to paper – surely, would motivate her to write the song!

Easier said than done.

Kaede absentmindedly swirls the pen in the ink. Like raw batter for a cake that she's just never going to make, the pen glides through the ink like silk. This is her life now.

 _Clink,_ the sound of metal against glass. _Clink_ , which note is that? _Clink,_ oh, who cares.

Clink _, maybe I should sleep._

Clink _; no, it’s only eleven._

_Clink._

_Sleep is just wasted writing time._

Clink _, wasted_ playing _time._

_Playing!_

_The piano will cheer me up!_

The clinks turn to clatters and the pen flies out of her hand.

Her feet push against the wall – _whoosh_ – and she sails across the linoleum. In her impatience, she pushes with too much gusto and tumbles onto the floor, trailing smudged ink over the floorboards. No time to wipe them. With a giddy smile, she grabs her writing equipment and fumbles her way downstairs.

_Let’s set the atmosphere._

An electrical light will kill the mood, she thinks. So, she strikes a match -and fire _bursts_ into the room then settles into a pleasant amber glow. She lights the candles on the stone mantle. _Hm._ Natural light doesn’t do much. The piano keys are just barely visible.

For another kick of light, she pulls the curtains open and pushes aside the blinds – she can pretend the street lights are the light of the moon pouring in. It does wonders for the ambiance, so she pulls up the piano stool to the windowsill and lingers in the moonlight.

She’s jolted out of the trance by someone else’s gaze.

A girl at the bus stop, shivering in the cold on the other side of the street.

_She’s cute._

Snow boots, black jeans, red jumper. No hat or gloves, not even a scarf – just her jumper pulled over her hands in a desperate (and adorable) attempt to warm them. Impossibly long hair tied in pigtails at her side, red scrunchies. Woolen socks – the jeans don’t fit well enough to cover them. She’s shivering in the snow, the poor girl, but she looks more resentful than upset.

Like she’d kick you if you dared refer to her as _poor girl._

Kaede felt a chill from looking at her, a rush of something exciting.

Normally, she’d stop looking at a first glance. Something held her back. _She’s looking at me too._ Indeed, the girl is doing exactly what Kaede is, studying her right back. Kaede catches a glimpse of her expression. A distant smile, but curious crimson eyes.

Searching without knowing what to look for.

It’s difficult to look at someone’s eyes without them noticing. If someone’s distracted, yes, it’s easy enough to get a quick glance, but Kaede appears to _be_ this girl’s distraction.

And something in the human brain just understands the feeling of someone watching them. An instinctual defense mechanism from a time with more to worry about than the eyelashes of a stranger outside her window. Respectable eyelashes. She knows style.

As Kaede muses about the girl’s eyelashes, she looks forward and they lock eyes for the first time.

There are few things more enchanting than a pretty girl. But this girl, whoever she is, is _beautiful._ Kaede feels an ache, deep inside. An earthquake couldn’t shake her gaze. Whoever she is, she seems different from the rest if the world. She's a cold-looking girl in the cold, cold snow - but her eyes are full of warmth. Kaede smiles faintly, and the girl's mouth twitches ever-so - Kaede could have sworn she saw a smile back. 

No, an earthquake couldn’t shake her gaze. But a piano could.

 _Hey_ , _girl at the bus stop,_ Kaede thinks, grinning as she turns away.

 _I_ _’m going to write you a song._

**Author's Note:**

> Technical skilllllllz. Onomatopoeia, alliteration, power of three - boy I really was writing for an imaginary grade. I'm sure it's not perfect, but it's as close as I can get without spending _another_ few months on it.


End file.
